


Dirk's Dessert Metaphor: The Musical

by Quilly



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, and dessert is delicious, discussion of sexuality, in which dirk is bothered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9232382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: Dirk waxes deliciously metaphorical about himself. Jane indulges his rambling.





	

**Author's Note:**

> just an old thing on Tumblr I felt like posting here; I like examining different Dirk headcanons, and this is one of my favorites.

Your name is Dirk Strider and you’ve been offered a baked good.

 

“Sure,” you say, and open your mouth. Jane does not look amused, but pops one of her shortbread bites into your mouth while you keep your eyes focused on Li’l Seb’s interior workings. There’s some delicate machinery in here, you can’t afford to be distracted. But there’s always time for shortbread. Jane kindly sticks around to feed you about four more, then goes to sit on your workbench, swinging her legs in the air and watching you. Back in the game, you never thought you’d get to the point where you’d be comfortable with another human being’s presence in your domicile, but time has worked you over on that point. It’s nice somebody is getting some use out of your kitchen, anyway, gog knows you aren’t.

 

Li’l Seb underwent some hella sick damage in the trans-dimensional journey that brought many of the dead players to the reward world, and you thought fixing that mess was hard, but the way the solder refuses to hold on Li’l Seb’s auditory wiring is eating away at your last nerve. It might have something to do with the conversation you overheard between the bird version of your bro and the cat version of your…daughter?...regarding something you just haven’t wanted to discuss openly, but you aren’t admitting to anything.

 

“Thanks,” you say belatedly, and Jane hums, tapping away at her tablet, probably playing some puzzle game. Then, without thinking, you blurt, “I like cookies.”

 

She looks up at you over her glasses, amused. “I hadn’t noticed.”

 

“I do,” you say, and quirk a smile. “I truly do. Cookies are the jam. The bomb dot com.”

 

“I’m glad you like them,” she says, and goes back to her game.

 

“I like cake, too.”

 

“If this is an attempt to get me to make you a cake, you only have to ask, Dirk.”

 

“No, no, I’m not saying you should make me a cake, I’m just saying I like cake, too,” you say, looking up from Li’l Seb’s mess of a wiring system. “Like. I enjoy cookies, and cake, and most delicious pastries, actually. All dessert. Dessert is good, I like dessert.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” Jane nods, then frowns at something that happened on her tablet.

 

“It just stickles my buns when people try to tell you that you can’t like more than one thing,” you continue, returning to Li’l Seb. This wiring will hold if it’s the last thing you do. Jane bursts a laugh, and it’s such a happy sound. You like Jane’s laugh. Probably one of your favorite sounds. “I said it, Crocker, and I meant it. It stickles my buns something fierce.”

 

“We must avoid bun stickling at all costs,” Jane says seriously, though you can still hear the wide grin on her face.

 

“Like, I just hate it when someone thinks you can’t possibly like pie because you had a piece of cake last night,” you say, letting the auditory wiring rest for now and instead patching a minor bug with the left eye camera. “No, I like pie just fine, but sometimes I want cake. And sometimes I want a cookie. And sometimes it’s like, that’s too much dessert, I want some me-time for a while. Sorry, Oreo package, you’re gonna have to pick up your heels and walk to the bus station, you’re not staying at my place for the night, because it’s Dirk Strider Time. But then later on I might change my mind and want some apple strudel. Y’know?”

 

“Mmm,” Jane says.

 

“Why do other people have to get in my business about what dessert I like, anyway?” you grumble, returning to the auditory wires. “It’s not their business. It’s not their dessert. Maybe I go a long time without eating cookies. Does that mean I don’t like cookies anymore? No, man, like, I was just having a nice evening with this pie, but it’s over now, I want a cookie.”

 

“You’re going to get awfully fat if all you live on is dessert,” Jane says absently, swiping at her screen. The solder finally sticks, laying the wires exactly where you want them to go, and you sigh in relief. “Why not just tell people to mind their own business?”

 

“I mean, I do, but it doesn’t mean they stop talking about it behind my back,” you say, double-checking all of the wires and switches and bits and ends inside Li’l Seb. “Why can’t we leave people’s dessert preferences alone? Why does it have to be all in the open, with labels and boxes and Do Not Disturb signs?”

 

“Some people have allergies,” Jane says, and it jars so out-of-sync with your metaphor you look at her, confused. She looks up at you. “And some people like labels, and identifiers that help them find like-minded people. But if a person doesn’t want a label, they don’t have to have one.”

 

You look at each other for a long time, and then you crack a smile. “Yeah.” You return to Li’l Seb, finish your inspection, and fit the panel back over his innards, looking for where you put the tiny screws. Jane holds them out in her hand, and winks when you take them back.

 

“For what it’s worth, you know we all love you regardless of your dessert preferences,” Jane says, and the warmth of her smile disarms you. “There’s more shortbread in the kitchen, when you’re done.” She hops off the workbench and disappears back into your home. You busy yourself with finishing Li’l Seb, vanilla sweet on your tongue and mouth salivating for more.

 

It’s good shortbread.


End file.
